Our first child is named after a famous cyclist. Most people don't know that, and really, I wouldn't have known that his name is shared with a famous cyclist if it weren't for my cycling obsessed hubby. But since he started it, I'd toyed with the idea of naming other kids after my fitness obsession. A couple names crossed my mind-- Miles. Brooks.
Boston.
A little less than a year ago, I started training for my first marathon. Eventually, the race ended up not happening due to an injury, but as I was logging 35 miles a week, the idea of running a marathon became less of a fantasy and seemed so tangible. So plausible. Something that would happen, rather than something that might happen. And it still will happen. And while I was daydreaming about that day, I fantasized about getting to coveted BQ.
And when I do get the BQ, I'll be there. Every child I have, a gift I give myself after is a half marathon. And I had already envisioned that the gift I'd give myself after my final pregnancy would be a marathon where I would get my BQ, and our entire family would go out to see me race.
My sister texted me this morning. "Don't run the Boston Marathon."
Yesterday, I felt so much anger. So much distress. Never in a million years would it even have crossed my mind to fear for the safety of my husband and children as they waited at a finish line to support me in something that is so dear to who I am. Yesterday changed that. It forever changed that.
But it won't stop me. Whoever did this will not be allowed to take anything more than what has already been taken.
My heart is in Boston today.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Eager Baby.
Quick background on my attitudes toward the healthcare system in terms of pregnancy and levels of intervention: My mom had C-sections with all four of her kids, I assumed I was set for the same fate. Then I went to college and read an article in an anthropology class about the high rates of C-sections when they were not completely necessary, and that got me thinking. Checked out "Misconceptions" by Naomi Wolf, read it cover to cover, and sought out the closest birthing center with my first pregnancy. Developed pre-eclampsia, was put on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy and had to be induced and delivered at the hospital. Second pregnancy, did a home birth and rocked the pants off it. This third pregnancy, I'm planning a home birth, and working with a new midwife (was a midwife at the birthing center I went to for my first pregnancy) who is more medically inclined than the midwife I worked with in my last pregnancy.
Follow all of that?
Anyway.
Friday morning, I woke up and started getting ready for work. I noticed some pretty intense, painful contractions, but I hopped in the shower anyway, figuring they were just Braxton Hicks and I was being a pansy. However, I noticed that I kept cranking the hot water over until it couldn't get any hotter to try to get some relief when one of these "pansy" contractions happened, and then I vomited. Uhhh... no bueno. As I'm fumbling around, trying to find clothes to wear to work (curse having a meeting scheduled so I couldn't go with my comfy maternity jeans that were allowed on Fridays!), the darling husband took the liberty of timing the contractions.
"They're three minutes apart. Don't go to work."
I explained that I HAD to go to work. The meeting, 30 minutes out of town, was important, and they were providing LUNCH. THAT was enough to go. I gasped out that reasoning, however, as I was rocking on my hands and knees trying desperately to get through the painful contraction.
At 35 weeks, this was not a good place to be in. The babe needs a little more time to cook.
I headed to work anyway, and barely made it up to my office (did you know it takes more than three minutes for me to get from my car up to my office? I do, now, because I had a contraction getting out of the car, and then again before I collapsed into my chair). As I sat, just minutes from having to get up and leave to go to the meeting, I started shaking uncontrollably from how uncomfortable I was. I called my supervisor and explained what was going on, and that perhaps I shouldn't go to the meeting ("It would be awkward if my water broke in your nice car"), and she told me to go home. So I did. And spent all day on the couch, on the ball, in the bathtub, anywhere and everywhere trying to get relief from the contractions. Sent a text to the midwife when they didn't die down by the early afternoon, and as she was out of state on vacation with her family, she decided to try to get me an appointment with the doctor she works through. When that wasn't going through, she wanted me to go to the ER to get checked.
I looked at Bobby. "Nope." I'd had enough false starts with my second babe that I was not about to go in and go through the hassle of all that to be told that this was nothing. In a few hours, it would die down, and I'd be fine.
Fast forward to the next morning, where I was still having contractions every three minutes and didn't sleep the night before, I finally conceded. Something was going on, and I was willing to go in even if it meant just finding out I had a UTI and had to go on an antibiotic or something. Anything to make the contractions stop was better than just dealing with them (oh, and the possibility that the baby was going to come too early. However, that didn't seem like such a threat, because of all the false starts with the last pregnancy).
The husband dropped the kids off at with friends, and came back to retrieve me. We went to the hospital, got checked in, and the nurse (who was super nice) got me hooked up to monitors and asked all the medical history stuff. No big deal.
Was monitored. Contracted. Did my thing, only did it without the guilt of being a terrible mother because I knew my kids were hanging out with their buddies playing outside instead of trying to climb on their grumpy mom who didn't want anyone to touch her.
After a while, the nurse came in with a cup and an order from the doctor. The cup was to pee in to test for a UTI. The order from the doctor was to give me a shot of Terbutaline. Having never heard of that before, the conversation went a lot like this:
Me: What is that?
Nurse: It's a smooth muscle relaxant. It should relax your muscles and stop the contractions.
Me: Are there any side effects? Will it do anything to him (the baby)?
Nurse: Well, it will probably make your heart race, so in turn, it will make his heart race.
Me: So it won't have any negative effects on him?
Nurse: Nope! And we usually give three doses, but the doctor just wants to try one injection and see how that works for you.
Me: I'd like to talk to my husband about it first and see if that's something we're comfortable with.
She left the cup, and as I went to do what preggos do best and attempt to aim a cup around a gigantic belly close enough to get urine in it, the husband pulled out his laptop and looked up the medication. Immediately, he came across this:
The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is warning the public that injectable terbutaline should not be used in pregnant women for prevention or prolonged treatment (beyond 48-72 hours) of preterm labor in either the hospital or outpatient setting because of the potential for serious maternal heart problems and death.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I would think his mother potentially dying would probably have a negative affect on the babe. That could just be me thinking too highly of myself, though.
Terbutaline is approved to prevent and treat bronchospasm (narrowing of airways) associated with asthma, bronchitis, and emphysema. The drug is sometimes used off-label (an unapproved use) for acute obstetric uses, including treating preterm labor and treating uterine hyperstimulation. Terbutaline has also been used off-label over longer periods of time in an attempt to prevent recurrent preterm labor.
Again, this may be nit-picky, but I feel like there should be some kind of obligation by medical professionals to say something along the lines of, "Oh, bee tee dubs, this medicine we want to give you to treat this? Not even really supposed to, according to the FDA. No big deal, though, we do it all the time." I hear all these awful stories about how insurance won't cover treatment for people because it's too experimental, but they're hunky dorey with covering an intervention that the FDA doesn't even approve of? How is that consistent? (slash ethical?)
So when the nurse returned to retrieve the pee cup (hit my target, thank you very much), she asked what we had decided with the shot. I told her it was something I wasn't comfortable with.
Fast forward an hour or so, and she returned to check to see if I was progressing (I wasn't), and said that the urine test indicated it could be a UTI. So did I want to go ahead and get the antibiotic called into the pharmacy, or would I rather wait until they ran the 24 hour culture? As a person who isn't huge on taking antibiotics just for kicks and giggles, I told her I'd wait.
As she went through the discharge instructions, she discussed all the things I needed to look for to come back in again. One thing she stressed was that if I developed a fever, I needed to get in immediately, as babe #3's heart rate was measuring at the high end of normal, and a fever would increase his heart rate-- making him tachycardic, which would be dangerous. (This is the part where you remember back to when, just a couple hours prior, they were trying to inject me with a medication that they were pretty certain would increase my son's heart rate). She then told me that the doctor would call me the next day to let me know the results of the urine culture, and off we went. It was 2:00 p.m. Saturday, which I noted so I could anticipate about when to expect the phone call the next day.
Sunday evening rolls around, and while I was still contracting, they seemed to be easing off a bit in intensity. I was trying to hydrate like it was my job, and entertain myself on the couch, when I got a text message from the midwife letting me know she was back in town, and wanted to know how I was doing. I gave her an update, and told her I was still waiting to hear about the culture. She texted back to say they may not have it done yet, and she'd call the lab to see. She calls back a minute or two later and lets me know that my culture was totally normal, and I didn't need any antibiotics. She then told me something that reinforced why I absolutely adore my decision to use a midwife:
"You know, you could have gotten a virus. Or a bad night's sleep. Or you were dehydrated, and vomiting made you more dehydrated, and that kicked up the contractions. Or your body just likes to practice before you go into labor, as you saw with your last one. I don't know. I can't pretend to know, because the human body has surprised me so many times that I stopped making guesses when I just don't know."
I just don't know.
Instead of assigning diagnoses or reasons for why something is happening when there is no idea, wouldn't it be great if people in medical professions could just say "I don't know"? The doctor didn't know why I was contracting, and rather than go with that until there was a known reason, I was having medications thrown at me that could have negative effects on myself and my child. And for what reason? So I would be more confident in her practice? So she could feel like she was doing something in a situation she didn't feel she had control over? When I told my midwife about the terbutaline, she told me, "Oh, that stuff makes you feel crazy. I can't imagine how getting that would have made you feel any better than you were feeling in that moment." Awesome.
I am completely for hospital interventions to save people's lives. I am grateful for the experience I had in my first pregnancy, and while there are some things I would change about what happened (I had no idea internal monitoring meant they'd put a BARB in my son's HEAD, because nobody told me!), it was still a really great experience and I felt like we were well taken care of. I was sick and needed to be there to make sure both my son and I were healthy and safe. However, there comes a point where virtue turns to vice, and when we stop questioning the things that happen because we dare not approach the pedestal we've placed medical professionals upon, I think things get sloppy as a result of the lack of accountability.
In a the age of google, it's a privilege to be able to say, "Let me explore that first." With tablets and smartphones and tiny laptops, that information is so easy to get to anywhere we are. Let's take advantage. Let the accountability come back.
And in case you were wondering, the fact that this kiddo still can do a roundhouse ninja sequence in the midst of an intense contraction means he's pretty hardcore. I'm not too worried about him.
Follow all of that?
Anyway.
Friday morning, I woke up and started getting ready for work. I noticed some pretty intense, painful contractions, but I hopped in the shower anyway, figuring they were just Braxton Hicks and I was being a pansy. However, I noticed that I kept cranking the hot water over until it couldn't get any hotter to try to get some relief when one of these "pansy" contractions happened, and then I vomited. Uhhh... no bueno. As I'm fumbling around, trying to find clothes to wear to work (curse having a meeting scheduled so I couldn't go with my comfy maternity jeans that were allowed on Fridays!), the darling husband took the liberty of timing the contractions.
"They're three minutes apart. Don't go to work."
I explained that I HAD to go to work. The meeting, 30 minutes out of town, was important, and they were providing LUNCH. THAT was enough to go. I gasped out that reasoning, however, as I was rocking on my hands and knees trying desperately to get through the painful contraction.
At 35 weeks, this was not a good place to be in. The babe needs a little more time to cook.
I headed to work anyway, and barely made it up to my office (did you know it takes more than three minutes for me to get from my car up to my office? I do, now, because I had a contraction getting out of the car, and then again before I collapsed into my chair). As I sat, just minutes from having to get up and leave to go to the meeting, I started shaking uncontrollably from how uncomfortable I was. I called my supervisor and explained what was going on, and that perhaps I shouldn't go to the meeting ("It would be awkward if my water broke in your nice car"), and she told me to go home. So I did. And spent all day on the couch, on the ball, in the bathtub, anywhere and everywhere trying to get relief from the contractions. Sent a text to the midwife when they didn't die down by the early afternoon, and as she was out of state on vacation with her family, she decided to try to get me an appointment with the doctor she works through. When that wasn't going through, she wanted me to go to the ER to get checked.
I looked at Bobby. "Nope." I'd had enough false starts with my second babe that I was not about to go in and go through the hassle of all that to be told that this was nothing. In a few hours, it would die down, and I'd be fine.
Fast forward to the next morning, where I was still having contractions every three minutes and didn't sleep the night before, I finally conceded. Something was going on, and I was willing to go in even if it meant just finding out I had a UTI and had to go on an antibiotic or something. Anything to make the contractions stop was better than just dealing with them (oh, and the possibility that the baby was going to come too early. However, that didn't seem like such a threat, because of all the false starts with the last pregnancy).
The husband dropped the kids off at with friends, and came back to retrieve me. We went to the hospital, got checked in, and the nurse (who was super nice) got me hooked up to monitors and asked all the medical history stuff. No big deal.
Was monitored. Contracted. Did my thing, only did it without the guilt of being a terrible mother because I knew my kids were hanging out with their buddies playing outside instead of trying to climb on their grumpy mom who didn't want anyone to touch her.
After a while, the nurse came in with a cup and an order from the doctor. The cup was to pee in to test for a UTI. The order from the doctor was to give me a shot of Terbutaline. Having never heard of that before, the conversation went a lot like this:
Me: What is that?
Nurse: It's a smooth muscle relaxant. It should relax your muscles and stop the contractions.
Me: Are there any side effects? Will it do anything to him (the baby)?
Nurse: Well, it will probably make your heart race, so in turn, it will make his heart race.
Me: So it won't have any negative effects on him?
Nurse: Nope! And we usually give three doses, but the doctor just wants to try one injection and see how that works for you.
Me: I'd like to talk to my husband about it first and see if that's something we're comfortable with.
She left the cup, and as I went to do what preggos do best and attempt to aim a cup around a gigantic belly close enough to get urine in it, the husband pulled out his laptop and looked up the medication. Immediately, he came across this:
The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is warning the public that injectable terbutaline should not be used in pregnant women for prevention or prolonged treatment (beyond 48-72 hours) of preterm labor in either the hospital or outpatient setting because of the potential for serious maternal heart problems and death.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I would think his mother potentially dying would probably have a negative affect on the babe. That could just be me thinking too highly of myself, though.
Terbutaline is approved to prevent and treat bronchospasm (narrowing of airways) associated with asthma, bronchitis, and emphysema. The drug is sometimes used off-label (an unapproved use) for acute obstetric uses, including treating preterm labor and treating uterine hyperstimulation. Terbutaline has also been used off-label over longer periods of time in an attempt to prevent recurrent preterm labor.
Again, this may be nit-picky, but I feel like there should be some kind of obligation by medical professionals to say something along the lines of, "Oh, bee tee dubs, this medicine we want to give you to treat this? Not even really supposed to, according to the FDA. No big deal, though, we do it all the time." I hear all these awful stories about how insurance won't cover treatment for people because it's too experimental, but they're hunky dorey with covering an intervention that the FDA doesn't even approve of? How is that consistent? (slash ethical?)
So when the nurse returned to retrieve the pee cup (hit my target, thank you very much), she asked what we had decided with the shot. I told her it was something I wasn't comfortable with.
Fast forward an hour or so, and she returned to check to see if I was progressing (I wasn't), and said that the urine test indicated it could be a UTI. So did I want to go ahead and get the antibiotic called into the pharmacy, or would I rather wait until they ran the 24 hour culture? As a person who isn't huge on taking antibiotics just for kicks and giggles, I told her I'd wait.
As she went through the discharge instructions, she discussed all the things I needed to look for to come back in again. One thing she stressed was that if I developed a fever, I needed to get in immediately, as babe #3's heart rate was measuring at the high end of normal, and a fever would increase his heart rate-- making him tachycardic, which would be dangerous. (This is the part where you remember back to when, just a couple hours prior, they were trying to inject me with a medication that they were pretty certain would increase my son's heart rate). She then told me that the doctor would call me the next day to let me know the results of the urine culture, and off we went. It was 2:00 p.m. Saturday, which I noted so I could anticipate about when to expect the phone call the next day.
Sunday evening rolls around, and while I was still contracting, they seemed to be easing off a bit in intensity. I was trying to hydrate like it was my job, and entertain myself on the couch, when I got a text message from the midwife letting me know she was back in town, and wanted to know how I was doing. I gave her an update, and told her I was still waiting to hear about the culture. She texted back to say they may not have it done yet, and she'd call the lab to see. She calls back a minute or two later and lets me know that my culture was totally normal, and I didn't need any antibiotics. She then told me something that reinforced why I absolutely adore my decision to use a midwife:
"You know, you could have gotten a virus. Or a bad night's sleep. Or you were dehydrated, and vomiting made you more dehydrated, and that kicked up the contractions. Or your body just likes to practice before you go into labor, as you saw with your last one. I don't know. I can't pretend to know, because the human body has surprised me so many times that I stopped making guesses when I just don't know."
I just don't know.
Instead of assigning diagnoses or reasons for why something is happening when there is no idea, wouldn't it be great if people in medical professions could just say "I don't know"? The doctor didn't know why I was contracting, and rather than go with that until there was a known reason, I was having medications thrown at me that could have negative effects on myself and my child. And for what reason? So I would be more confident in her practice? So she could feel like she was doing something in a situation she didn't feel she had control over? When I told my midwife about the terbutaline, she told me, "Oh, that stuff makes you feel crazy. I can't imagine how getting that would have made you feel any better than you were feeling in that moment." Awesome.
I am completely for hospital interventions to save people's lives. I am grateful for the experience I had in my first pregnancy, and while there are some things I would change about what happened (I had no idea internal monitoring meant they'd put a BARB in my son's HEAD, because nobody told me!), it was still a really great experience and I felt like we were well taken care of. I was sick and needed to be there to make sure both my son and I were healthy and safe. However, there comes a point where virtue turns to vice, and when we stop questioning the things that happen because we dare not approach the pedestal we've placed medical professionals upon, I think things get sloppy as a result of the lack of accountability.
In a the age of google, it's a privilege to be able to say, "Let me explore that first." With tablets and smartphones and tiny laptops, that information is so easy to get to anywhere we are. Let's take advantage. Let the accountability come back.
And in case you were wondering, the fact that this kiddo still can do a roundhouse ninja sequence in the midst of an intense contraction means he's pretty hardcore. I'm not too worried about him.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Honey Eatin' Almost Vegan
I promise-- I will blog regularly when I'm running again. The other day, I actually sat down and made out my workout schedule for after this baby arrives, and it made me feel so much better about life. Having that little sheet of paper with a plan written out helped me feel like I was still doing something, even though, technically, I'm not really doing anything (other than, you know, growing a human).
The doing nothing-ness was weighing on me. But I was so tired, and my body just felt heavy. I was irritable. Grumpy. My body hurt, and my brain felt cloudy. Ugh, pregnancy, right?
So the husband came home from work last week, the chitluns were in bed, and we decided to watch something on Netflix. Unable to find something that wasn't depressing/raunchy/violent, we settled on Forks Over Knives, which I'd wanted to watch for a while.
Not the best thing to watch after you've just gone grocery shopping.
The husband and I have been pretty good eaters. For a while, I was even vegetarian, and gave it up when I ran into complications with my first pregnancy, attributing it to the lack of protein. I've gone for long spurts of no sugar, and then gone back to sugar, and then off, and then back-- and I know I feel better when I'm not eating it, but I used pregnancy as an excuse. I'm so uncomfortable and giant anyway, why not, right? It's one of those life pleasures that I can still enjoy when so much else is taken off the table (like running. Or wearing clothing that fits and doesn't make me feel like a sack of fabric). The husband has a degree in Exercise Science, and he was in the process of applying for graduate school in Health and Psychology of Physical Activity. We ate only whole grains, lots of fruits and veggies, no trans fats or corn syrup. Doing pretty well.
But then we learned about The China Study.
And there went dairy. And meat.
As soon as the movie was over, I looked over at the husband and said, "Well, that's that. Let's do this." We both knew we needed a boost, something to get us back to eating what and how we knew we should. We'd gotten lazy with both of us working and never seeing each other, having two toddlers, and my pregnancy. So the next day, we stocked up on almond milk, more fruits and veggies, and beans, hoping to stick to the information we were reminded of regarding the benefits of sticking to a whole foods, plant based diet.
I had some anxiety. I knew the first three days after giving up sugar are the hardest, and I had become pretty dependent on my chocolate fix. But it was actually surprisingly easy. I noticed a difference after the first day-- I felt satiated longer, my mood was better, and while I still was sleepy at the end of the day, I didn't feel heavy. I didn't feel cloudy. I didn't run out of patience at bed time.
My joints even felt better.
I have been so surprised by how much better I feel over all. Prone to depression and anxiety, which seems to heighten with pregnancy hormones, I feel a lot like I've taken a Prozac-- I just feel level, normal, better able to see the happy. The stress is gone. The irritability is gone. The desire to slap someone is gone.
I feel awesome.
I'd heard from fellow runners that giving up dairy has done wonders for their performance, and I was considering doing it for that reason. Since I'm not able to run right now, it seemed silly to do it until after the baby is born. But if I had known that making this change was going to be such a boost to my mood, I would have done it long ago. Sticking to eating this way has proven so far to be very easy, because I'm so motivated to keep feeling this great. Thirty-four weeks pregnant and feeling great? Yes, please.
My concerns about the kids were that they would not adjust well to eating this way. We haven't been terrible with what they eat, but they do like their cheese and yogurt. The almost-three-year-old also drank his weight in milk every day, which was pretty much his only intake. But they have actually done so well with the transition-- they eat the stuff we're eating, and they love it. I made a giant salad, and actually thought, "There is now way I'm going to be able to eat all of this." It worked out well, though, because my little birds were at my feet, begging for another bite. SALAD.
It's wonderful.
I have also made these a couple times, and they've been a hit with the chitluns (and the adults-- a batch doesn't last a day in our house). Easy peasy, and so great to just grab and go!
No Bake Peanut Butter Balls
2 C raw oats
3/4 C peanut butter (all natural-- we also used almond butter in a batch, and SO YUMMY)
1/4 C honey
1/4 C flaxseed
1 t vanilla
1 C craisins (or chocolate chips, or raisins, or nuts, or whatever you want)
Mix all together in a bowl. Put in the fridge for 30 minutes to harden. Mold mixture into balls. Ready to eat right away!
Love it. I'm feeling good about all of this.
Ahhhhh.
The doing nothing-ness was weighing on me. But I was so tired, and my body just felt heavy. I was irritable. Grumpy. My body hurt, and my brain felt cloudy. Ugh, pregnancy, right?
So the husband came home from work last week, the chitluns were in bed, and we decided to watch something on Netflix. Unable to find something that wasn't depressing/raunchy/violent, we settled on Forks Over Knives, which I'd wanted to watch for a while.
Not the best thing to watch after you've just gone grocery shopping.
The husband and I have been pretty good eaters. For a while, I was even vegetarian, and gave it up when I ran into complications with my first pregnancy, attributing it to the lack of protein. I've gone for long spurts of no sugar, and then gone back to sugar, and then off, and then back-- and I know I feel better when I'm not eating it, but I used pregnancy as an excuse. I'm so uncomfortable and giant anyway, why not, right? It's one of those life pleasures that I can still enjoy when so much else is taken off the table (like running. Or wearing clothing that fits and doesn't make me feel like a sack of fabric). The husband has a degree in Exercise Science, and he was in the process of applying for graduate school in Health and Psychology of Physical Activity. We ate only whole grains, lots of fruits and veggies, no trans fats or corn syrup. Doing pretty well.
But then we learned about The China Study.
And there went dairy. And meat.
As soon as the movie was over, I looked over at the husband and said, "Well, that's that. Let's do this." We both knew we needed a boost, something to get us back to eating what and how we knew we should. We'd gotten lazy with both of us working and never seeing each other, having two toddlers, and my pregnancy. So the next day, we stocked up on almond milk, more fruits and veggies, and beans, hoping to stick to the information we were reminded of regarding the benefits of sticking to a whole foods, plant based diet.
I had some anxiety. I knew the first three days after giving up sugar are the hardest, and I had become pretty dependent on my chocolate fix. But it was actually surprisingly easy. I noticed a difference after the first day-- I felt satiated longer, my mood was better, and while I still was sleepy at the end of the day, I didn't feel heavy. I didn't feel cloudy. I didn't run out of patience at bed time.
My joints even felt better.
I have been so surprised by how much better I feel over all. Prone to depression and anxiety, which seems to heighten with pregnancy hormones, I feel a lot like I've taken a Prozac-- I just feel level, normal, better able to see the happy. The stress is gone. The irritability is gone. The desire to slap someone is gone.
I feel awesome.
I'd heard from fellow runners that giving up dairy has done wonders for their performance, and I was considering doing it for that reason. Since I'm not able to run right now, it seemed silly to do it until after the baby is born. But if I had known that making this change was going to be such a boost to my mood, I would have done it long ago. Sticking to eating this way has proven so far to be very easy, because I'm so motivated to keep feeling this great. Thirty-four weeks pregnant and feeling great? Yes, please.
My concerns about the kids were that they would not adjust well to eating this way. We haven't been terrible with what they eat, but they do like their cheese and yogurt. The almost-three-year-old also drank his weight in milk every day, which was pretty much his only intake. But they have actually done so well with the transition-- they eat the stuff we're eating, and they love it. I made a giant salad, and actually thought, "There is now way I'm going to be able to eat all of this." It worked out well, though, because my little birds were at my feet, begging for another bite. SALAD.
It's wonderful.
I have also made these a couple times, and they've been a hit with the chitluns (and the adults-- a batch doesn't last a day in our house). Easy peasy, and so great to just grab and go!
No Bake Peanut Butter Balls
2 C raw oats
3/4 C peanut butter (all natural-- we also used almond butter in a batch, and SO YUMMY)
1/4 C honey
1/4 C flaxseed
1 t vanilla
1 C craisins (or chocolate chips, or raisins, or nuts, or whatever you want)
Mix all together in a bowl. Put in the fridge for 30 minutes to harden. Mold mixture into balls. Ready to eat right away!
Love it. I'm feeling good about all of this.
Ahhhhh.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Courage.
Yes. My blogging has been minimal. But so has my energy level.
In spite of pounding iron supplements like they're candy, I have not been able to restore my level of perkiness back to pre-pregnancy ideals, which, I guess, was a little too optimistic of me to hope for in the first place. Having two toddlers who need to be entertained indoors until the weather warms up a bit has been physically draining on me, and no amount of alfalfa tablets will rectify that truth.
In spite of all of the fatigue, I had still managed to maintain my routine of 200 minutes per week on the elliptical, along with some light weight lifting. I was pleased with my fitness, and daydreamed of continuing this routine for the remainder of my pregnancy (all 9ish weeks of it), hoping I'd be in a really great place for getting back into running. My previous pregnancies had left me abandoning an exercise routine a month or so before I delivered, and I was determined for that to not be the case this time.
Then, last week happened. Emily (my amazing midwife) has her clients go to the doctor once during third trimester in case of an emergency transfer down the road-- the paperwork is in, they have a chart for me, and the transition would be less difficult that way. When I went into the exam room, with my husband and two chitluns accompanying, the nurse did the usual-- blood pressure, medical history, and then asked me to step on the digital scale.
No big deal, right?
I didn't think so, even though just a few weeks prior I'd told Emily, who had asked if I could go weigh myself, that I'd rather not. Emily, being amazing and wonderful, said that was fine. I explained that I had a history of disordered eating, and getting on a scale when I'm pregnant is really triggering for me.
So I stepped on the digital scale, and looked down to report the number to the nurse. Happy happy joy joy, my belly prevented me from seeing the number before the nurse did, and she said, "Okay, hop off." She didn't say the number out loud, and I didn't ask.
Unfortunately, my belly did not obscure my view of my husband, who was sitting right next to the scale, and I saw him see the number.
Something inside of me died.
Perhaps it's the hormones, or just being in a vulnerable place because of what pregnancy does to my body image (which isn't super great to start off with, anyway). My husband has done nothing to suggest I am anything less than beautiful to him. He is supportive, loving, and very sensitive to my body image issues. In spite of recognizing all of that, however, seeing him see the number made a part of me feel like he now had ammunition to stop loving me.
That was a hard thing to sit with for a few days.
Physically, I continued doing the right things. Eating well, taking my vitamins, and I didn't start exercising excessively. What I did recognize, though, was that my body was struggling a little with being this pregnant. My back hurt. My hips felt achy. I could fall asleep at any point of any day because of the exhaustion that was overwhelming me. Any other person experiencing these things, I would say, "Cut back on working out! Your body is working hard enough to grow a baby." But I couldn't give myself that kind of allowance. To stop exercising was to give in to what that number said, to accept it, and to let it erase any value I might have. So while externally, nothing changed about my behavior, emotionally, I went to a bad place.
Wednesday, we went to have a sonogram done. It was a free scan, one done by someone who had just graduated from a sonography program using volunteers to keep up her skills. I was eager to find out if I could go buy a bunch of too-enticing cute outfits on the girl side of Baby Gap, or if I could start calling the babe by the boy name we had picked out. As she went through the scan, we got to see the baby's face, and I wanted nothing more than to reach in and give this little child a hug. By the end of the scan, we discovered we are amazing at making little boys! My heart swelled, and I couldn't stop grinning.
So last night, while still on a high from seeing my tiny babe, I looked at the elliptical. I thought about how many days it had been since I exercised, and the tape of self-criticism started playing its loop in my head. The lumps and bulges I saw in the mirror that appeared from holding on to more fat to sustain a pregnancy screamed my inadequacy, my lack of self control, my diminished value. As I looked at the elliptical and contemplated donning my workout attire, though, I felt a soft little kick. And I realized, I'm tired. My body is exhausted. I played today with my children, and my body needs a break. My baby deserves a well rested body to grow and be strong in. And that is more important than whatever emotional benefits I would temporarily get from exercising in this moment.
So I didn't. I didn't exercise. And I didn't tell myself I was terrible for it.
And laying on the couch, I felt stronger than I've felt in a long time.
In spite of pounding iron supplements like they're candy, I have not been able to restore my level of perkiness back to pre-pregnancy ideals, which, I guess, was a little too optimistic of me to hope for in the first place. Having two toddlers who need to be entertained indoors until the weather warms up a bit has been physically draining on me, and no amount of alfalfa tablets will rectify that truth.
In spite of all of the fatigue, I had still managed to maintain my routine of 200 minutes per week on the elliptical, along with some light weight lifting. I was pleased with my fitness, and daydreamed of continuing this routine for the remainder of my pregnancy (all 9ish weeks of it), hoping I'd be in a really great place for getting back into running. My previous pregnancies had left me abandoning an exercise routine a month or so before I delivered, and I was determined for that to not be the case this time.
Then, last week happened. Emily (my amazing midwife) has her clients go to the doctor once during third trimester in case of an emergency transfer down the road-- the paperwork is in, they have a chart for me, and the transition would be less difficult that way. When I went into the exam room, with my husband and two chitluns accompanying, the nurse did the usual-- blood pressure, medical history, and then asked me to step on the digital scale.
No big deal, right?
I didn't think so, even though just a few weeks prior I'd told Emily, who had asked if I could go weigh myself, that I'd rather not. Emily, being amazing and wonderful, said that was fine. I explained that I had a history of disordered eating, and getting on a scale when I'm pregnant is really triggering for me.
So I stepped on the digital scale, and looked down to report the number to the nurse. Happy happy joy joy, my belly prevented me from seeing the number before the nurse did, and she said, "Okay, hop off." She didn't say the number out loud, and I didn't ask.
Unfortunately, my belly did not obscure my view of my husband, who was sitting right next to the scale, and I saw him see the number.
Something inside of me died.
Perhaps it's the hormones, or just being in a vulnerable place because of what pregnancy does to my body image (which isn't super great to start off with, anyway). My husband has done nothing to suggest I am anything less than beautiful to him. He is supportive, loving, and very sensitive to my body image issues. In spite of recognizing all of that, however, seeing him see the number made a part of me feel like he now had ammunition to stop loving me.
That was a hard thing to sit with for a few days.
Physically, I continued doing the right things. Eating well, taking my vitamins, and I didn't start exercising excessively. What I did recognize, though, was that my body was struggling a little with being this pregnant. My back hurt. My hips felt achy. I could fall asleep at any point of any day because of the exhaustion that was overwhelming me. Any other person experiencing these things, I would say, "Cut back on working out! Your body is working hard enough to grow a baby." But I couldn't give myself that kind of allowance. To stop exercising was to give in to what that number said, to accept it, and to let it erase any value I might have. So while externally, nothing changed about my behavior, emotionally, I went to a bad place.
Wednesday, we went to have a sonogram done. It was a free scan, one done by someone who had just graduated from a sonography program using volunteers to keep up her skills. I was eager to find out if I could go buy a bunch of too-enticing cute outfits on the girl side of Baby Gap, or if I could start calling the babe by the boy name we had picked out. As she went through the scan, we got to see the baby's face, and I wanted nothing more than to reach in and give this little child a hug. By the end of the scan, we discovered we are amazing at making little boys! My heart swelled, and I couldn't stop grinning.
So last night, while still on a high from seeing my tiny babe, I looked at the elliptical. I thought about how many days it had been since I exercised, and the tape of self-criticism started playing its loop in my head. The lumps and bulges I saw in the mirror that appeared from holding on to more fat to sustain a pregnancy screamed my inadequacy, my lack of self control, my diminished value. As I looked at the elliptical and contemplated donning my workout attire, though, I felt a soft little kick. And I realized, I'm tired. My body is exhausted. I played today with my children, and my body needs a break. My baby deserves a well rested body to grow and be strong in. And that is more important than whatever emotional benefits I would temporarily get from exercising in this moment.
So I didn't. I didn't exercise. And I didn't tell myself I was terrible for it.
And laying on the couch, I felt stronger than I've felt in a long time.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
I have an idea (and I need your help).
A while ago (eons ago, it feels like, as anything pre-mommyhood seems like a completely different lifetime), I worked at an eating disorder clinic. I was a tech, which meant that I was with the girls and women receiving treatment throughout the nitty gritty parts of their day-- meal times, snack times, bed times, outings. I got to go to music therapy, sit through movies where we had the dreaded FNS (Friday Night Snack), and even jumped out of an absurdly tall tree. It was a weird job. It was a great job. I genuinely loved the gals I worked for, even the ones that made the job more interesting than usual.
I learned a lot while working there, but one of the hardest things for me to swallow was the variance in support these gals had outside of treatment. There were the ones that had the parents come every chance they had, and the goodbyes were tearful but encouraging. There were the ones whose parents were completely enmeshed in their daughter's treatment, sometimes in a co-dependent way, sometimes in a malicious way. Then there were the parents who weren't there at all.
That was the hard part.
Of course, it wasn't possible for a lot of them to come often. Girls were coming to treatment from all over the country (sometimes, the world), so travelling for every single Family Weekend would be asking a lot, especially on top of how much treatment cost. Some of the gals who fell into that category would get the phone calls, the letters, the packages. They'd get support in other ways.
Then there were the ones who would come to the nurse's station every day after the mail was sorted, and they would ask, "Did I get anything?" Or after the Saturday night outing, they'd come by the tech who stayed behind, and check to see if they had any missed calls. With their charts right there, and their family's contact information readily available, it was so hard not to pick up the phone and beg them to call their daughter, just once, so she knows that she is loved and isn't fighting this insanely difficult battle on her own. For whatever reason, it didn't register as something important for them to do. So instead, I spent the night of December 23 that year, working my overnight shift, covering my hands with papercuts and scissor slices from curling ribbon to wrap packages of random items (underwear, deoderant, stationery) so the patients who had been forgotten by family would get a Christmas.
Fast forward to now. A few days ago, there was an eating disorder clinic doing an outreach promotion on Facebook as a part of Eating Disorder Awareness week. Each day, they'd post a question, and the answer could be found in their resources section of their website. The first person to answer would get a $10 giftcard of their choice. I happened over right after they posted a question, found the answer quickly, and responded in time to qualify for one of the giftcards. Yay! I love winning things. They told me to email them my address and where I'd like the giftcard to be good for, and I immediately started brainstorming. There are some books that I want, so Amazon? I've also been drooling over some headbands on Etsy in the offhand chance this babe is a girl, so maybe there. Or I could use some more music on my iPod for when I start training after this baby is born, so an iTunes card would be nice. But every thought left me feeling empty. I was on the verge of just asking for a grocery store giftcard, because at least then it would help my family, when I sat down to email the gal and it came to me-- Instead of a giftcard for something I don't especially need, I asked if I could donate it back, and have a therapist or a tech at the clinic use it to go get something fun for one of the gals I described above-- someone who checks the nurse's station every day to see if there is something for her to show that she is loved. I had some anxiety about whether they would think it was a ridiculous idea or not, but they responded so enthusiastically that it got my brain going.
Which is where my idea comes in, and where you can help.
There are eating disorder clinics all over the country, and I'm willing to bet that at any given time, there is someone doing inpatient that fits the description above. One of the hardest parts of recovering from an eating disorder is getting to a place where you feel like you are worth fighting for-- that you deserve to be happy and healthy, and free from the disorder. Without any support outside the walls of the treatment center, it can feel impossible, and the motivation can disappear to even bother with doing the hard stuff. So here is, as my darling toddler would say, "my want-to": I want to put together TEN care packages to send to various eating disorder clinics throughout the USA that would provide a moment of hope to these gals who are struggling. But the idea I have in mind would be a lot more doable if I had my crafty friends on board-- because I'm the least crafty person in the world.
In the package, I want to put in a book (I'm thinking this one) and several postcards that they could hang up in their room, carry with them, etc-- that would say something along the following:
So what do you think? Are you in?
I learned a lot while working there, but one of the hardest things for me to swallow was the variance in support these gals had outside of treatment. There were the ones that had the parents come every chance they had, and the goodbyes were tearful but encouraging. There were the ones whose parents were completely enmeshed in their daughter's treatment, sometimes in a co-dependent way, sometimes in a malicious way. Then there were the parents who weren't there at all.
That was the hard part.
Of course, it wasn't possible for a lot of them to come often. Girls were coming to treatment from all over the country (sometimes, the world), so travelling for every single Family Weekend would be asking a lot, especially on top of how much treatment cost. Some of the gals who fell into that category would get the phone calls, the letters, the packages. They'd get support in other ways.
Then there were the ones who would come to the nurse's station every day after the mail was sorted, and they would ask, "Did I get anything?" Or after the Saturday night outing, they'd come by the tech who stayed behind, and check to see if they had any missed calls. With their charts right there, and their family's contact information readily available, it was so hard not to pick up the phone and beg them to call their daughter, just once, so she knows that she is loved and isn't fighting this insanely difficult battle on her own. For whatever reason, it didn't register as something important for them to do. So instead, I spent the night of December 23 that year, working my overnight shift, covering my hands with papercuts and scissor slices from curling ribbon to wrap packages of random items (underwear, deoderant, stationery) so the patients who had been forgotten by family would get a Christmas.
Fast forward to now. A few days ago, there was an eating disorder clinic doing an outreach promotion on Facebook as a part of Eating Disorder Awareness week. Each day, they'd post a question, and the answer could be found in their resources section of their website. The first person to answer would get a $10 giftcard of their choice. I happened over right after they posted a question, found the answer quickly, and responded in time to qualify for one of the giftcards. Yay! I love winning things. They told me to email them my address and where I'd like the giftcard to be good for, and I immediately started brainstorming. There are some books that I want, so Amazon? I've also been drooling over some headbands on Etsy in the offhand chance this babe is a girl, so maybe there. Or I could use some more music on my iPod for when I start training after this baby is born, so an iTunes card would be nice. But every thought left me feeling empty. I was on the verge of just asking for a grocery store giftcard, because at least then it would help my family, when I sat down to email the gal and it came to me-- Instead of a giftcard for something I don't especially need, I asked if I could donate it back, and have a therapist or a tech at the clinic use it to go get something fun for one of the gals I described above-- someone who checks the nurse's station every day to see if there is something for her to show that she is loved. I had some anxiety about whether they would think it was a ridiculous idea or not, but they responded so enthusiastically that it got my brain going.
Which is where my idea comes in, and where you can help.
There are eating disorder clinics all over the country, and I'm willing to bet that at any given time, there is someone doing inpatient that fits the description above. One of the hardest parts of recovering from an eating disorder is getting to a place where you feel like you are worth fighting for-- that you deserve to be happy and healthy, and free from the disorder. Without any support outside the walls of the treatment center, it can feel impossible, and the motivation can disappear to even bother with doing the hard stuff. So here is, as my darling toddler would say, "my want-to": I want to put together TEN care packages to send to various eating disorder clinics throughout the USA that would provide a moment of hope to these gals who are struggling. But the idea I have in mind would be a lot more doable if I had my crafty friends on board-- because I'm the least crafty person in the world.
In the package, I want to put in a book (I'm thinking this one) and several postcards that they could hang up in their room, carry with them, etc-- that would say something along the following:
- You are brave.
- You are enough.
- You have the strength to get through today.
- You deserve happiness.
- You are worth fighting for.
So what do you think? Are you in?
Friday, February 15, 2013
I have some beef with "freedom."
Yes, it's been a while. There was a delightful little stomach bug that went around, and we were fortunate enough to have it hit our family one member at a time (holy moly, taking on the puke train with multiple suppliers would have probably been the end of me). So while it took less effort at one time to tackle that delightful illness, it was spread out over a long enough period that I constantly felt the urge to both nap and shower at the same time. Unfortunately for me, the water heater is not large enough to acommodate such an endeavor (although, I guess this is quite fortunate for both our water bill and the children that I would undoubtedly be neglecting to engage in such an indulgence).
Anyhoo.
This past week marked an annual occasion that always leaves me on edge-- the distribution of the yearly Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. I'm proud to say that I have not stepped inside a grocery store over the past week (unless Costco counts, and since they don't have their magazines by the checkout, I don't count it). Having those images thrown at me against my will, as well as exposing my little boys to women presented as tools to achieve visual sexual stimulation, are not things I look forward to.
So I got excited when I saw this:
Grace Gregson, store manager of the Barnes and Noble SouthTowne Marketplace location, referred to the chain’s corporate censorship policy, which states in part: "Some customers may strongly oppose the content of a particular title and choose not to purchase it. We respect their opinions. In return, we ask that our customers respect our responsibility to offer a selection of reading materials as diverse as the society in which we live, the very society that grants the freedom for these materials to exist."
Okay. I get it. First Ammendment. I work in a world of lawyers, I know how important that right is. And while I have some strong opinions about pornography (normalized and otherwise) and allegories to yelling "FIRE!" in a crowded public space, I won't get on that soapbox for now. Instead, I'll talk about "freedom for these materials to exist."
Yes. They do have a right to publish the continued objectification of women, and they have the right to promote the idea that women are designed purely for the visual stimulation of others. They have the right to suggest that athletic, professional, personal, charitable, and familial merits are not as important as one's ability to arouse members of the opposite sex. And in a world where often the promotion of freedom and rights applies to individuals who oppose traditional values, this right is protected vehemently and adamently, with those who oppose labeled as closed-minded and insecure.
But in a world where people are spending so much time fighting for the rights of the marginalized, can't we recognize that we're stomping on the rights of others to accomplish this?
While I'll consent that those publishing these materials have the right to do so, I disagree that they also have a right to flaunt them in the face of those whose ideals differ to the point of finding these materials obscene and offensive. Why should I have to avoid going to the grocery store if I don't want to see the cover of this magazine? Why should I strategize what errands to run with my sons so they aren't exposed to something I find to be incredibly inappropriate, and what has been empirically shown to have a negative impact on the way they view (and thus treat) women? Why is it okay for their freedom to infringe on the time I get as their mother to teach them things that I find to be adding to their development, rather than expend that precious time attempting to do damage control to prevent this nonconsensual exposure from having a lasting impact on their developing psyche?
You have the right to create it. But you don't have the right to shove it in my face, or the face of my children.
I have the right to walk out of a movie if something is presented that I find offensive. I have the right to close a book if the content is something I find distasteful. But when displays are placed so that I can't even purchase groceries without these images staring back at me, there's a problem.
Looks like Costco will be getting all of my grocery budget for the next month.
Anyhoo.
This past week marked an annual occasion that always leaves me on edge-- the distribution of the yearly Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. I'm proud to say that I have not stepped inside a grocery store over the past week (unless Costco counts, and since they don't have their magazines by the checkout, I don't count it). Having those images thrown at me against my will, as well as exposing my little boys to women presented as tools to achieve visual sexual stimulation, are not things I look forward to.
So I got excited when I saw this:
Grace Gregson, store manager of the Barnes and Noble SouthTowne Marketplace location, referred to the chain’s corporate censorship policy, which states in part: "Some customers may strongly oppose the content of a particular title and choose not to purchase it. We respect their opinions. In return, we ask that our customers respect our responsibility to offer a selection of reading materials as diverse as the society in which we live, the very society that grants the freedom for these materials to exist."
Okay. I get it. First Ammendment. I work in a world of lawyers, I know how important that right is. And while I have some strong opinions about pornography (normalized and otherwise) and allegories to yelling "FIRE!" in a crowded public space, I won't get on that soapbox for now. Instead, I'll talk about "freedom for these materials to exist."
Yes. They do have a right to publish the continued objectification of women, and they have the right to promote the idea that women are designed purely for the visual stimulation of others. They have the right to suggest that athletic, professional, personal, charitable, and familial merits are not as important as one's ability to arouse members of the opposite sex. And in a world where often the promotion of freedom and rights applies to individuals who oppose traditional values, this right is protected vehemently and adamently, with those who oppose labeled as closed-minded and insecure.
But in a world where people are spending so much time fighting for the rights of the marginalized, can't we recognize that we're stomping on the rights of others to accomplish this?
While I'll consent that those publishing these materials have the right to do so, I disagree that they also have a right to flaunt them in the face of those whose ideals differ to the point of finding these materials obscene and offensive. Why should I have to avoid going to the grocery store if I don't want to see the cover of this magazine? Why should I strategize what errands to run with my sons so they aren't exposed to something I find to be incredibly inappropriate, and what has been empirically shown to have a negative impact on the way they view (and thus treat) women? Why is it okay for their freedom to infringe on the time I get as their mother to teach them things that I find to be adding to their development, rather than expend that precious time attempting to do damage control to prevent this nonconsensual exposure from having a lasting impact on their developing psyche?
You have the right to create it. But you don't have the right to shove it in my face, or the face of my children.
I have the right to walk out of a movie if something is presented that I find offensive. I have the right to close a book if the content is something I find distasteful. But when displays are placed so that I can't even purchase groceries without these images staring back at me, there's a problem.
Looks like Costco will be getting all of my grocery budget for the next month.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Sexual Assault: Victim On Trial
At my job, I have taken on the task of writing a newsletter for each month of the semester, and each one centers around a different mental health issue. An article will describe the mental health concern, and then it is accompanied by two articles that may or may not be related to the theme for the month. January, my first issue, consisted of writing about anxiety, and then outlined the disability resource on campus and how to access their services, as well as an introduction to the law school's charming, competent, and adorable Student Affair's Counselor (me). It was an easy newsletter to write.
For February, though, I'm finding it difficult to write more than few sentences without stopping to find some adorable picture of a baby otter wearing overalls or something equally absurdly cute. The topic I chose for the month is Sexual Assault. With everything going on with Steubenville, Notre Dame, and becoming aware of what is happening locally, it seems like a really important topic to address. And usually, when I'm passionate about something, I can't shut up about it (if you haven't noticed already).
But this one is hard for me.
See, the thing is, I have seen a startling trend in these cases. In my perfect world (well, as perfect as it can be where sexual assaults still happen), a person who has reported that she (because while men can be raped, a large majority of rape survivors are women, so I'll go with that pronoun) has been attacked, she would immediately be placed in a bubble of safety. People she trusted would be at her side. A trained therapist would be there to help her process, as well as advocate for her needs. Accommodations would be put in place for her to feel safe, secure-- whatever that meant (change in class schedule, relocation for work [different office/work from home]). The person accused would be questioned immediately, with such dedication and concern assigned to individuals who has been accused of murder. He would have the burden of proving himself innocent.
I realize, immediately, the potential issue with this scenario. What if it's just someone crying rape? What if it is an ex-girlfriend scorned, and she's just looking for retribution? Yes. I'm sure this happens. But to me, it's a matter of what is at stake-- if the guy is innocent and people go probing into his life, and he's put in a horrible situation when he has done nothing wrong, that would be awful. But in that scenario, the individual accused is probably in a relatively stable emotional state, and while it would be difficult to have to endure that situation, it could be manageable. Awful. But manageable.
Instead, we have our system as it is now. A girl has been assaulted. You have the entire issue behind 76% of rapes occurring from someone she is at least acquainted with (sometimes intimately so), so she has to overcome all of the confusing feelings and guilt that come with being assaulted by someone you chose to have in your life. So she comes forward, reports the assault. And what happens? In a system of innocent until proven guilty, the accused has the benefit of the doubt, and the accuser (the traumatized) has the burden of proving she wasn't "asking for it." What were you wearing? Were you drinking? Have you exhibited poor judgement in the past with multiple partners? Do you have anything to gain by accusing this guy of rape (notoriety, bringing down a sports team, revenge)? Have you ever been in therapy for depression or anything else that could deem you unstable and therefore unreliable?
Ugh. Just typing those words makes me feel sick to my stomach.
And I guess it comes with personal experience. Transferrance. Because recently, I've been in a situation where I was uncomfortable. Felt things were-- inappropriate. Not to the extent of assault. But not okay. And I spoke up about the situation. And spoke up again. And kept bringing it up. The response I got was that I was being "too sensitive." That I was "being unfair." Eventually, I believed them. I felt crazy. I was having a very strong emotional response to something that should not have been happening, but everything around me was telling me that what was happening was okay. When I finally realized that my initial response was appropriate, and I was stuck in a system of enablers, I found my voice-- and I spoke clearly, assertively, and was still met with, "You're making a mistake."
It's scary to me that we live in a culture where so many things that are inappropriate are considered okay. That someone who is uncomfortable because their boundaries have been violated is the one that it is in the wrong, because she's being "too sensitive." Horrible things that happen in public are laughed about-- where will we draw the line? When will we say, "Wait a minute. That isn't okay"? We need to remove the excuses that we assign to inappropriate behavior and instead address the behavior. We need to stop putting the feelings of someone who is doing something hurtful above the person being hurt. Change can be hard. Change can be scary. But I can promise that it isn't harder than what the person who has been rendered silent in an unjust system is experiencing every. Single. Day. Surviving in a system where she is told that she does not matter, that what happened to her is not significant-- that she is merely an object that can be acted upon with no consequences for the actor.
Support. Validation. Empowerment. Even before all of these essential things necessary for healing after experiencing assault, is someone willing to listen. And not just listen to look for holes or defend the accused party-- but really listen. And hear what happened, and what it has done to the person speaking. After having the courage to say something, isn't that the least we can offer?
And because it cannot be viewed often enough:
For February, though, I'm finding it difficult to write more than few sentences without stopping to find some adorable picture of a baby otter wearing overalls or something equally absurdly cute. The topic I chose for the month is Sexual Assault. With everything going on with Steubenville, Notre Dame, and becoming aware of what is happening locally, it seems like a really important topic to address. And usually, when I'm passionate about something, I can't shut up about it (if you haven't noticed already).
But this one is hard for me.
See, the thing is, I have seen a startling trend in these cases. In my perfect world (well, as perfect as it can be where sexual assaults still happen), a person who has reported that she (because while men can be raped, a large majority of rape survivors are women, so I'll go with that pronoun) has been attacked, she would immediately be placed in a bubble of safety. People she trusted would be at her side. A trained therapist would be there to help her process, as well as advocate for her needs. Accommodations would be put in place for her to feel safe, secure-- whatever that meant (change in class schedule, relocation for work [different office/work from home]). The person accused would be questioned immediately, with such dedication and concern assigned to individuals who has been accused of murder. He would have the burden of proving himself innocent.
I realize, immediately, the potential issue with this scenario. What if it's just someone crying rape? What if it is an ex-girlfriend scorned, and she's just looking for retribution? Yes. I'm sure this happens. But to me, it's a matter of what is at stake-- if the guy is innocent and people go probing into his life, and he's put in a horrible situation when he has done nothing wrong, that would be awful. But in that scenario, the individual accused is probably in a relatively stable emotional state, and while it would be difficult to have to endure that situation, it could be manageable. Awful. But manageable.
Instead, we have our system as it is now. A girl has been assaulted. You have the entire issue behind 76% of rapes occurring from someone she is at least acquainted with (sometimes intimately so), so she has to overcome all of the confusing feelings and guilt that come with being assaulted by someone you chose to have in your life. So she comes forward, reports the assault. And what happens? In a system of innocent until proven guilty, the accused has the benefit of the doubt, and the accuser (the traumatized) has the burden of proving she wasn't "asking for it." What were you wearing? Were you drinking? Have you exhibited poor judgement in the past with multiple partners? Do you have anything to gain by accusing this guy of rape (notoriety, bringing down a sports team, revenge)? Have you ever been in therapy for depression or anything else that could deem you unstable and therefore unreliable?
Ugh. Just typing those words makes me feel sick to my stomach.
And I guess it comes with personal experience. Transferrance. Because recently, I've been in a situation where I was uncomfortable. Felt things were-- inappropriate. Not to the extent of assault. But not okay. And I spoke up about the situation. And spoke up again. And kept bringing it up. The response I got was that I was being "too sensitive." That I was "being unfair." Eventually, I believed them. I felt crazy. I was having a very strong emotional response to something that should not have been happening, but everything around me was telling me that what was happening was okay. When I finally realized that my initial response was appropriate, and I was stuck in a system of enablers, I found my voice-- and I spoke clearly, assertively, and was still met with, "You're making a mistake."
It's scary to me that we live in a culture where so many things that are inappropriate are considered okay. That someone who is uncomfortable because their boundaries have been violated is the one that it is in the wrong, because she's being "too sensitive." Horrible things that happen in public are laughed about-- where will we draw the line? When will we say, "Wait a minute. That isn't okay"? We need to remove the excuses that we assign to inappropriate behavior and instead address the behavior. We need to stop putting the feelings of someone who is doing something hurtful above the person being hurt. Change can be hard. Change can be scary. But I can promise that it isn't harder than what the person who has been rendered silent in an unjust system is experiencing every. Single. Day. Surviving in a system where she is told that she does not matter, that what happened to her is not significant-- that she is merely an object that can be acted upon with no consequences for the actor.
Support. Validation. Empowerment. Even before all of these essential things necessary for healing after experiencing assault, is someone willing to listen. And not just listen to look for holes or defend the accused party-- but really listen. And hear what happened, and what it has done to the person speaking. After having the courage to say something, isn't that the least we can offer?
And because it cannot be viewed often enough:
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